


Spiked and Spiced

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: John Watson loved Christmas, and he wasn’t going to let some pessimistic flatmate ruin it for him.Sherlock is hopelessly, ridiculously uncooperative, but maybe with some proper hot cocoa, enough holiday movie marathons, and a dash of mistletoe, there may be something to get out of this holiday season after all.





	Spiked and Spiced

John Watson loved Christmas.

From his first year of stomping down the stairs on a bright snowy morning, to when he noticed that the handwriting on the presents were awfully similar to that of his mum, to his single fortnight of working as a mall elf when he was sixteen and struggling to scrounge up enough money to buy him something that wasn’t instant noodles—to John Watson, the end of year meant jingle bells and tinsel and sledging.

He was one of those people who listened to Mariah Carey in October, who would hand out candy canes on the streets (not that he could do that, of course, not in London, where he wouldn’t dare take a _break_ on the streets, much less candy, but the idea seemed pleasant enough) and wear christmas jumpers immediately when it became socially acceptable, maybe sooner.

Christmas in the army arrived with an extra scoop of soup and a second serving each. Even Harry had sent him a letter, detailing her dinner with Clara and ending with a wish for him to come home safe. John had sat on the edge of his cot and talked with other members of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers about families and friends and home. He grew up in a small northern town, where winters meant blizzards and frost, but those December nights passed with outside hot and sandy, war raging on instead of a storm.

One night, that was all it was, before the gunfire began again, day after day, until the shot on the shoulder that sent him all the way back to London. One day of peace, wonderful and surreal.

So you can imagine how he felt when his flatmate dismissed the holidays with a scoff and a wave of a hand.

“Completely pointless,” Sherlock said, and that was it.

“Christmas is completely pointless,” John repeated. He was clad in a red-and-green striped jumper, which fit the argument rather nicely—in fact, it had started it.

“There you go.” Sherlock nodded approvingly. “A marketing tactic devised to scam money from people whom society has pressured to buy gifts for their ‘loved ones’.”

“You wouldn’t want to receive any gifts?” John prodded.

“Cufflinks and bow ties,” Sherlock said with disgust. “The only thing I enjoyed about presents was giving Mycroft dead owl gizzards.”

“Of course,” John said. “What about dinner?”

 _“Mycroft,”_ Sherlock said again, as if it were obvious. He tilted his head and his expression changed. “It’s always fun to ask about his constant diet, though. I baked two dozen sugar cookies three years ago and left them on his office desk. It was _wonderful.”_

“You’re the little brother, no question about that.” John shook his head. “I’m guessing you didn’t bother with Father Christmas.”

Sherlock looked repulsed. Exasperated, John said, “Did you even bother with Christmas itself? Besides being forced to?”

“John, why do you feel the need to ask questions that you already know the answer to?”

John leaned forwards in his chair. He didn’t know why, but he felt like he needed to get this point across no matter what. “You know, you can’t cross something off if you’ve never tried it.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face. “You’re telling to me _try_ Christmas?”

“Well. Yes.”

Sherlock gave John a typical side-eye, raising his cup of tea—that John had made, no less. “Christmas is boring,” he summed up.

John narrowed his eyes. “For the next days, weeks, however long it takes, we’re having hot cocoa in the morning.”

Sherlock sipped his soon-to-be hot cocoa and frowned.

John smiled and raised his own cup. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will let us borrow her stereo.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m trying to get something through that thick skull of yours,” John responded, typing into his laptop.

A pause.

“You’re not on your blog,” Sherlock said.

John hummed, scrolling with two fingers.

“John.”

Straightening up, John looked at Sherlock over his laptop. He was probably a medium, but he seemed to prefer small. Or extra-small. Christ.

Sherlock appeared right next to him.

Making an aghast choking noise, Sherlock grabbed the top of the laptop and slammed it down on John’s fingers.

“Ow! Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled. “You are not getting me to wear that.”

John tilted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He pressed his lips together, a corner quirking up.

“You’re _not,”_ Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows. “Mhm.”

Sherlock looked at John long and hard, and then he lifted his hands from the laptop cover, freeing John’s trapped fingers.

“If you’re trying to get me to enjoy Christmas,” he declared, “you’re not doing very well.”

John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock as he slowly lifted his laptop back open. “Hmm,” he said. “I’ll try harder.” He raised his voice to a holler. “Oi, Mrs. Hudson!”

-+-+-+-

The packages arrived later that day, much more than John had ordered, including but not limited to three extra jumpers, two of which were conjoined (Sherlock blanched, and John thought he would’ve chucked it out the window had it not been for John); an entire _gaggle_ of tinsel that immediately shed everywhere, scattering glittering pieces all over the floor that turned out to be tiny snowflakes; a packet of gourmet cocoa powder that, according to the back, cost more than their rent; and, to top it all off, a huge box that turned out to be full of butter cakes, which Sherlock sent right back without there being a return address on the box.

“I hate him,” Sherlock hissed, as he lifted his feet to inspect the bottom of his slippers and found them completely bedazzled with sparkling snowflakes.

“I don’t,” John said, as he taped up the tinsel around the spray painted smiley face.

The quiet background instrumental faded out, and was replaced by _Baby It’s Cold Outside_ for the fourth time since that morning.

Sherlock groaned loudly and flopped onto the couch, sprawled across like a pouting, particularly leggy starfish. “This is ridiculous.”

John smiled. “You’ll get it eventually.”

“Why are you adamant on making me miserable?”

“You’re really not enjoying this?”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him with dismay.

“John,” he said seriously. “This song is an adequate parallel to our scenario. It’s obvious that I do not want this.”

“Well,” John said, “that’s debatable. Both this and the song, actually.”

“Yes, I know, there was an article two days ago, I saw it on your laptop.”

“Mhm. I know.” John sighed, having given up on trying to get Sherlock to understand the concept of privacy long ago. “If you were trying to find out what your gift is, you won’t find it.”

Sherlock immediately responded, “You’re knitting me a matching christmas jumper.”

John paused. “Oh, piss off!”

“You went to the craft store on Tuesday, and you’ve been keeping it in your office—third drawer from the top?”

“Piss off,” John repeated.

Sherlock sat up. “You’re genuinely angry,” he said curiously.

“Of course I am,” John muttered. “Gifts are meant to be a surprise.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like surprises. Also, my measurements are much smaller than what you are basing the jumper off of.”

“Sherlock, can you just—” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m doing this for you, you git. Stop complaining for one bloody second and appreciate it.”

Sherlock frowned and tilted his head. “Why are you being so persistent?”

“I, well.” John huffed. “It’s Christmas, Sherlock. I want you to enjoy it with me. Yeah, of course Christmas it too _juvenile_ for your massive intellect.” He rolled his eyes.

“Trust me, you’re not above having some fun. Just relax and enjoy this, will you?”

John stopped. Sherlock was looking at him with a strange, intense expression that John was so used to by now that it hardly fazed him. Hardly.

He waited. “So.”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock said.

John blinked. “That was easier than I thought.”

Sherlock sighed, and walked over. “Don’t make me take it back,” he said, and held out a hand. “Give me the tinsel. For such an avid evangelist, you are atrocious at decorating.”

-+-+-+-

The smell of the cocoa powder had caused John to give in after a minute of measuring, to taste a bit with the tip of his finger. Compared to his extra-steeped and unsweetened tea, it was more than tolerable, spreading smooth and rich over his tongue.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” John said out loud.

He was pouring the steaming hot cocoa into the mugs when Sherlock came over behind him. (It was strange: he never actually heard Sherlock, not even with that creaky second-last step on the stairs, nor his slipper-clad footsteps, but John always knew when he was near.)

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and squinted. “This isn’t tea.”

“Good observation,” John said.

Sherlock gave John a baleful look, and then directed it to the two mugs.

“You need to drink a cup of black tea before your break,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise you’ll have a headache and sore eyes in the afternoon.”

“What?” Oh, of course Sherlock knew that. “That’s alright, I think I’ll live.”

Sherlock frowned at John, and then he said, “Wait.”

Sherlock walked over to the table of beakers and flasks and strange chemical powders John wasn’t allowed to touch (which, frankly, after a particularly traumatic experience involving Sherlock with a cold, an absolute hatred for store-bought medicine, a powder that turned out to be definitely _not_ cold medicine, and the entire flat being soaked by sprinklers, he didn’t want to, either).

Sherlock opened a drawer and took out a small sachet of white powder.

When Sherlock then proceeded to measure it out with a scientific scale and then walk towards John with said measured white powder in a tiny test tube, naturally John grabbed his mug of cocoa and backed away, holding his palm over the top of the mug.

“Not again,” John warned. “Not ever.”

“Oh, get over it. That was one time.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and came closer to John, who took steady steps back with every one of Sherlock.

“One time too many.” John’s foot bumped against the leg of his armchair, sending stinging hot cocoa splashing up onto his palm.

“It’s forty-seven milligrams of powdered caffeine, John, it’s hardly enough to harm you.

“Look,” Sherlock said, turning abruptly and heading back to the kitchen counter. With John watching (still a hand over the mug), Sherlock tipped the powder into his own mug of cocoa and stirred it with the now-empty test tube.

John watched Sherlock very, very carefully as he raised the mug and took a sip.

“Now do you trust that I’m not attempting to drug you?” Sherlock spoke with an exasperation that was completely uncalled for, considering what had happened in the past.

To tell the truth—if he really wanted to, Sherlock was the type of person who would drug himself without hesitation if it meant getting someone else to do so with him.

“Alright,” John decided, against his better reasoning.

Sherlock smiled just a bit. “I’ll measure out another portion.”

“While you do that…” John held out a hand for Sherlock’s mug.

Sherlock groaned. “Really, John?”

“It’s Christmas,” John said simply.

“It’s a—”

“Shut up and give me your hot cocoa.”

Sherlock huffed, and handed over his mug.

John smiled, and took from the top drawer a canister of whipped cream he had bought the day before.

“Mix in the caffeine powder first for yours,” Sherlock said. “Unless you’d like to sprinkle it over the whipped cream, in which case you’d have to be accustomed to the taste of pure undissolved caffeine which you aren’t.”

“Which you are?” John retorted.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” (Honestly.) “So that’s how you managed to stay awake for a week straight.”

“No, that’s just because I’m accustomed to staying awake,” Sherlock corrected. “I was testing the effects of caffeine and it seemed more practical than drinking eight cups of coffee.”

 _“Eight—”_ John managed to cut himself off. He blew out a breath through tight lips. “What were the results?”

Sherlock looked away with a slightly stubborn frown. “The notes were illegible.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John refrained himself from potentially attacking Sherlock with a cinnamon stick. “Why do you… what would you be doing if I wasn’t here?”

“Using cocaine on the rooftop of St. Bart’s,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

John stopped decorating the mugs of hot cocoa. Sherlock tapped the side of a test tube, seemingly unaware.

“In that case,” John finally said, “I’m glad we met.”

Sherlock passed John the test tube and muttered something that sounded like _me, too._

-+-+-+-

 _Help me,_ the Grinch howled to the sky— _I’m feeling!_

“Really can’t help but see a resemblance here,” John commented.

Sherlock snorted, not deigning to give an answer. He reached out a hand towards John’s bowl.

John lifted it up and away. “You said you didn’t want anything,” he said, exasperated.

“I changed my mind.” Sherlock stretched out his arms and made a grab.

“Oh, come on.” John scooted away from Sherlock and turned his back to him. Sherlock huffed and stood up and, shit, he was tall—screw it; John stepped up onto the couch and held the bowl high.

“Get your own bloody popcorn,” John said as Sherlock followed suit, hoisting himself up the couch.

The two men looked at each other for a moment.

Feeling rather brave, John grabbed a piece of popcorn from over his head and ate it, not breaking eye contact.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and then lifted his arms up—but not for the bowl.

John shrieked. Popcorn tumbled down, cascading to the floor.

Quickly dissolving into fits of laughter, John bent over and then curled up onto the soda, twisting away from Sherlock, whose fingers wriggled at John’s sides, quick and relentless and _right there,_ bloody hell, obviously Sherlock knew where John was most ticklish, _obviously._

“Stop, stop!” Giggling wildly, John squirmed more, and fell over the edge and onto the floor. Popcorn kernels crunched beneath him.

And there John lay, chest heaving, hands still around his waist in futile defense.

The bowl lay upturned on the couch. Sherlock flipped it over, and sighed.

“Look what you’ve done. Now we both need to get more.”

“Arse,” John muttered from the floor.

Sherlock grinned at him from above.

 _Maybe Christmas isn’t that bad after all!_ said the Grinch.

John raised his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the smile would not go away.

They found some crisps in the back of the cupboard. It was split into two bowls.

John pointed out every single antagonist from the movies and compared them to Sherlock, who had to admit that the similarities were there. In one occasion Sherlock scowled at the lead couple in the film, and said something that was the exact words of what the antagonist said immediately after.

Sherlock complained relentlessly and ruthlessly, not even about the plot holes (although those were there, and pointed out, and rather mercilessly, too) more than the plot itself.

“This is ridiculous!” He chucked a crisp at the tv—it bounced off a close up of a woman who was crying for no reason at all. John had to agree.

-+-+-+-

At one point, somewhere along the fifth or sixth movie, John dozed off.

Sherlock didn’t move, not because of the movie (he had anticipated the ending ten minutes in) but because John had fallen asleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He turned off the television when the credits began to roll.

He stayed seated without moving for seven minutes, listening to John’s steady breathing, his hair tickling Sherlock’s neck.

Then he got up, carefully replacing his shoulder with a cushion. From the cupboard he grabbed the broom and dustpan, and swept up the spilled snacks from the floor, picking the pieces from around the sleeping figure.

Going upstairs, Sherlock entered John’s room and picked up the impeccably folded duvet, squared corners and smooth creases. He held it close to his chest as he headed back to the couch and unfolded it, laid it over, tucking in the edges.

And there he stood, next to the couch for three minutes, feeling like he was intruding on something but also not wanting to leave. There was some sort of pittering in his chest that felt both strange and welcome at the same time.

Sherlock felt a strange urge to hear his own name, spoken from John; an irrational longing.

He never particularly liked it. Obviously you’d expect such a name from two people who had named their firstborn _Mycroft._ For years, Sherlock retorted at jibes and jeers, kids and professors alike, saying his name with sharp, clear malice.

But _John,_ he said things like _fantastic_ and _brilliant, Sherlock,_ spoken quietly in amazement and awe—exasperated and amused. Even when he was angry, annoyance and irritation crackling along the edges of his voice.

And Sherlock would always try to fix it; fix whatever was keeping John from being happy. Why did he only do that with John? He didn’t care when Lestrade found him passed out in the police department, files and cold cases in a disarray. He didn’t care when Mycroft visited him, years ago, to say that he would die in a month if he kept doing what he was doing.

John…

John was different, Sherlock decided.

Beneath his blanket, John shifted and snuffled, and Sherlock felt himself get hit by something he didn’t quite understand. A quick fluttering pulse, petal-soft wings beating against his chest.

John stirred.

“Say, John,” Sherlock said, very quietly. “Would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?”

“Not in the least,” John mumbled.

“Ah, that’s lucky,” Sherlock said, and not another word was uttered that night.

-+-+-+-

John peered into the cocoa powder and immediately inhaled some of it. Honestly, you’d think he’d learn after all those days.

After a short coughing fit, he went in with his spoon for an attempt, and then put it away and just poured what was left of the bag instead.

He was stirring it in the pot when he sensed Sherlock behind him.

“Gingerbread spice,” John said. “Cinnamon and allspice and cloves and… something else.”

“Nutmeg,” Sherlock responded, leaning over John’s shoulder to inspect the drink.

“What actually are your priorities?” John asked.

“When ingested a heavy dose, nutmeg can be fatal.”

“Hmph.” John bit his lip and waited a second before speaking again.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he approached tentatively. “We could, you know. Do something—fun, festive.”

“I don’t have time for _fun_ and _festive,”_ Sherlock scoffed.

“But it’s Christmas,” John repeated.

He could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice. “Exactly.”

John sighed and swallowed down his rejection.

“You’re scorching the bottom,” Sherlock said

“Hm? Oh.” John didn’t realise he had stopped stirring.

Sherlock watched keenly. “Stir in circles,” he commanded. “No, not figure eights, circles. Follow the natural flow of the fluid. Slow down!”

“Are you seriously criticizing me on my stirring skills?”

Sherlock ignored him. “I said circles, John, Not _zigzags._ Don’t switch directions. Stir through the middle; there’s a clump of cocoa powder. Don’t splash it all over the counter.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock.” John scraped the spoon through the middle of the pot—well, hey, there _was_ a clump of cocoa there—and then continued to purposefully stir badly, because if he couldn’t get Sherlock to a skating rink or a fireworks display, he could at least annoy him a bit.

“I’ve been making this for the past week and they’ve all come out perfectly fine.”

Sherlock sniffed. “You’re not optimizing your technique,” he said, as if it was a chemistry experiment and not a bloody hot cocoa.

John knocked the spoon against the edge of the pot, letting go. “Do it yourself, if you’re so bloody picky.”

Of course Sherlock didn’t do it himself, quite happily settling on continuing to command John on what to do, and John aggressively doing the exact opposite of whatever it was.

And, of course, the hot cocoa turned out perfectly fine.

After, they sat in their respective seats, Sherlock closing his eyes, hands together and touching his chin in his standard _shut up, I’m thinking_ position. John tried to read the paper, not absorbing any of the information.

About a minute later, after John had finished an incredibly boring paragraph that he didn’t realise was an advertisement for a new fireplace, Sherlock suddenly sprang up from his seat.

“Bored!” He paced the floor in front of his chair (which must be a worn path by now). “It’s Christmas Eve, there must be _something.”_

 _None that you’re interested in._ “There are about a dozen parades. A couple carnivals. An open skating rink at the square.”

“Something _interesting.”_ Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and began texting. “There must be something,” he said again.

“Maybe serial killers have holidays off,” John suggested.

Sherlock tapped the side of his phone. “Lestrade is a slower typer than you,” he said, “which is saying something.”

John watched patiently as Sherlock stopped in front of the coffee table, grabbed his mug, and downed the entire thing in one gulp.

“O-kay,” John said, and sipped his own.

Sherlock drew in a breath, but his retort cut off short as his phone vibrated with a beep.

His eyes scanned the message and widened.

“Got something?” John asked.

Sherlock typed back a message, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and then jumped up into the air. “Brilliant!” he crowed, already running over to fetch his coat. “Come on, John!”

John sighed, downing the rest of the hot cocoa and getting up to follow Sherlock. “I really hope you don’t get killed on Christmas Eve.”

-+-+-+-

Sherlock had miscalculated, and he would in any other circumstance be reprimanding himself and reevaluating his options and recreating a new path of action, if it weren’t for the dagger that was currently solidly lodged into his arm.

Sherlock shuddered as a wave rolled over him, white-hot, coursing lightning through his veins. Something sharp-scented and dark dripped down his arm and onto the grass—grass, a field, tickling his legs and arms. He wasn’t too aware of it. His body was mostly focused on the more noticable sensations. Like the dagger in his arm.

Dagger, he thought. Could be a clue.

The handle was slippery and soaked. Sherlock tried to feel for the texture, perhaps a carving, and the pain increased tenfold. He gasped and let his head fall to the ground.

The man was faster than he had thought. He was gone, now. Gone, gone where?

He had a dagger in his back pocket. Which was, as which his mind seemed adamant on repeating, stuck in his arm.

Suddenly: his name, shouted from a distance, laced with alarm.

He isn’t supposed to come, Sherlock thought, a faint burst of coherency through the wall of pain.

But John was already next to him, falling to his knees, his jaw set, eyes unwavering as he took in the scene.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he breathed out, and pulled out his phone.

Sherlock listened and watched with a fading consciousness as John spoke firm and confident, hung up the phone and replaced it into his pocket.

John was supposed to be running to Lestrade, leading the rest of the mob to an arrest. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

The roaring in his ears were getting louder, his mind finally surrendering to the pain. John was saying things Sherlock couldn’t hear. Hands, on his chest, circling his wrist, touching his face.

John was here, Sherlock thought suddenly. Of course he was. He wouldn’t’ve listened to Sherlock, of course he didn’t.

Sherlock smiled through the thickening fog. “John,” he started, but never got to finish.

-+-+-+-

Pain in his right arm branched out and spread in fractals across his body. Sharpened. Intensified into stabs. Rubber mallets pounding away at his temples. _Ouch._

Thin, light material covering his body. Hard, slightly yielding surface: hospital bed. Hints of bright light through his closed eyelids.

“They said you wouldn’t wake this early.” Voice sounded bland. Flat. “But I guess you’re unpredictable. Except maybe you’re predictable in that you’re unpredictable. That was what saved you, you know. I know you, I know you have a reason for everything. I just can’t figure out the reason sometimes.”

Sherlock cracked open his eyes, and then immediately shut them again. The light felt like knives.

“So,” John continued. “Merry Christmas.”

It would be better if he spat the words, sharp and bitter. “John,” Sherlock tried to say through dried, uncooperating lips. _Stop speaking like that,_ he wanted to say.

“Head,” was what Sherlock said.

A sigh. “I know you have a headache.” Still clipped, bland, muttered, and it made Sherlock feel worse than if he was shouting. “You’re an idiot, you know that? Of course you know that; you’re a genius. A genius and a complete fucking imbecile.”

Sherlock tried again to open his eyes, this time resisting the urge to slam them shut. He focused his vision on John.

“You’ve been crying,” he immediately said, unable to stop the words. This condition, it damaged his mind-to-mouth.

John paused, and then laughed softly, sardonically. He rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for that. Pointing it out.”

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Sherlock continued. _Careful,_ he chastised himself.

John suddenly looked annoyed. “Who’s the patient here?”

“You are,” Sherlock mumbled. “Patient. Very patient to put up with me, everyone says.”

No, that wasn’t right.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, trying to focus his mind, rewinding his memory.

“You weren’t supposed to come,” Sherlock said, remembering. Yes, yes, that was right.

“I wasn’t… oh, that’s right. I wasn’t supposed to follow you, was I? You wanted me to run, bring the others to Lestrade, while the leader went straight after you. What did you think was going to happen? You really are thick, you know that?”

“Dagger,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, dagger. In your bloody arm.”

“Twelve inches,” Sherlock murmured. “Engraved, an ensigma, I didn’t see it with the blood—why did he use a dagger, John? Why not a gun?”

“I saw it, Sherlock, there’s a picture on my phone.”

“What?” Sherlock tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain (oh, yes, that made sense) rocketed through his arm. He gasped and fell back down.

John rushed forwards, putting one hand on Sherlock’s left shoulder and the other on his chest. Emotion leached into his voice. “Sherlock, don’t you dare try anything. I mean it.”

“The picture, John,” Sherlock said.

“The picture can wait. The case can wait.”

“The case—”

 _“The case can wait.”_ John’s voice made it clear that there would be no arguing. “This isn’t about the case, Sherlock. This is about _you_ , about… about _us.”_

Sherlock fell into a silence.

“You can’t keep doing this,” John muttered. “Not a single thought in that great bloody brain of yours goes to your safety.” Sherlock opened his mouth, but John reached out a hand placed a finger onto Sherlock’s lips.

“Not a word, Sherlock,” he warned. “Let me finish.

“You don’t take care of yourself. Never, ever, _ever,_ Sherlock. You can’t keep pulling these stupid, dangerous stunts.”

Sherlock tried to speak again.

“Shush, Sherlock! Listen!" John huffed. "Maybe, before, you did these things without thought. But you can’t do that anymore. You can’t. I won’t let you. Because—” John swallowed—“it’s not just you anymore. It’s the two of us. Maybe you don’t give an ounce of care about what happens to you, but I do. And you scared me,” John finished. “More than anything. For a moment, I thought I lost you.”

“I knew you’d show up,” Sherlock said, which was not an adequate response, but he didn’t seem to be able to think clearly at the moment.

“What if I didn’t? What if I don’t?” John spoke haltingly, with a slight tremor. “What if I’m not there, and you—” He didn’t need to continue.

There was a silence.

“Okay,” Sherlock said after. “Okay. I’ll be more careful.”

John sat back down, not on the chair but on the edge of the bed.

He gazed at Sherlock and sighed.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

Sherlock had nearly forgotten about his arm. It was merely a bit of background, now, a dull throb.

John was biting his lip, eyes fierce and stubborn.

“John,” Sherlock said, not knowing why. “I need…” What did he need? He didn’t know, how could he not know?

He looked at his fingers, resting on the thin hospital blanket.

“What do you need?” John asked.

Sherlock lifted his fingers and watched them tremble.

Slowly, slowly, John lifted his hand and placed it over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock exhaled, and what was left of the pain left with it. He twisted his hand around to interlock their fingers.

A feather-light thrumming. John: calloused, tanned skin contrasting Sherlock’s long, pale fingers, warm digits intertwining with the too-cold of Sherlock.

Yes, that was it. That was what Sherlock had needed, even if he didn’t know it then.

John laughed. Light and giddy.

“Of course.” He shook his head, looking at Sherlock fondly. “Of course we spend Christmas at the hospital.”

“Should’ve expected it,” Sherlock said, feeling strangely light-headed.

John laughed again, squeezing his hand.

Beeping from the heart monitor, fast and only increasing.

“My condition is very irregular,” Sherlock said.

“Sleep, Sherlock,” John said, smiling.

Sherlock tightened his grip. _Stay._

“Always, Sherlock,” John murmured.

-+-+-+-

He was on the phone with Lestrade, later, telling him something about the dagger. When he noticed Sherlock listening, John had exited the room.

“None of that,” he warned as he sat back down beside Sherlock. The chair had been solely used for sleeping purposes now, John’s usual spot being seated on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Until you’re better, I won’t let you worry about anything but yourself.”

Normally, Sherlock would roll his eyes and pester and complain, snap about John’s worry and nags, but, for some reason, something made him quiet down and nod, watch patiently as John stirred in two sugars into the terrible, terrible hospital coffee and steady it as Sherlock sipped.

Mycroft had visited for a total of ninety seconds, sixty of which were outside the door with John, talking too quietly for Sherlock to hear.

Molly had a box of chocolates, which originally Sherlock told John to toss in the bin, but John kept on the table. Lestrade had entered afterwards, grave-faced, warning Sherlock about police regulations and whatnot. He ended with a sigh, saying, “When you get better, you can take any three cold cases from our files. Merry Christmas.”

Mrs. Hudson had fretted for a while, scolding Sherlock about recklessness and “what did I tell you about being hot headed” before taking John’s hand and smiling gently.

“But don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t try anything too dangerous if he knows you’re waiting back home.”

Sherlock had scoffed at this: “John’s not waiting back home; he’s always with me.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled wider. “Why, that’s even better.”

John wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

-+-+-+-

The first time he saw Sherlock’s shoulder, sutured and stitched, John paled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this: “Aren’t you a doctor?” he said.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” John replied with, his hands steady and gentle over the wound.

Sherlock didn’t think that would be so bad.

At first, the nurses asked for him to step aside, as they took Sherlock’s blood pressure or changed his bandages, but John would encircle Sherlock’s wrist, record his pulse, help with Sherlock’s arm as they replaced the gauze. Sherlock made it clear that John did a better job than any of the others, and he announced it quite loudly, along with a string of other, more personal things.

Against a ridiculously difficult patient and an equally stubborn partner, the hospital relented, and John took on the task of the nurses.

Later, they urged John to go outside, to eat something that wasn’t hospital food, that he mustn’t fret so, Sherlock was stable and recovering at an insanely fast speed. When John bothered to respond, it would be cool and curt, a clear dismissal.

When Sherlock brought it up, John would say with a smile, “Didn’t I say I’d stay?”

Sherlock was kept in the hospital for seventy hours. John was by his side for sixty-four.

-+-+-+-

The first morning of many where John actually woke in his own bed, and not a cramped, uncomfortable hospital chair, he padded downstairs in fuzzy reindeer socks to a rather large elephant in the room.

And no, it wasn’t an actual elephant this time—much to the relief of John.

(The relief was short lived.)

John stopped, a few metres from the kitchen, from the stovetop, where Sherlock was standing, stirring something that smelled absolutely lovely, from where a single, very specific plant dangled right above his head.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said, and that was already out of the norm. “Happy belated Christmas,” he added, and now John was sure something was up.

If the mistletoe wasn’t a clear enough indicator already.

Now. John had been an older brother to a whiny little brat who would throw fits over the wrong way her sandwich was cut. He had been a soldier and an army doctor in Afghanistan. And, currently, as a flatmate to an apathetic sociopath with slightly-homicidal tendencies, it would be well-deserved to say that he had gone through things that would make even the most experienced, patient person in the world throw up their arms and declare surrender.

But when said apathetic sociopath flatmate greets him warmly in the morning, as he made them both a cup of hot cocoa, with a sprig of mistletoe above his head… well.

Having not experienced anything akin to this in his very, very expansive list of things he had experienced before, John decided to go for the obvious.

“You have mistletoe above your head,” John said.

Sherlock glanced up briefly before returning his attention back to the pot. “Mrs. Hudson hung it up yesterday, after you had gone to bed. She bought a bundle on sale from Tesco.”

“What?” John said faintly. “No, I mean… Is this another experiment?”

“Not really.” Sherlock was stirring in the caffeine powder, and John wondered if Sherlock had accidentally gotten it mixed up with a stronger drug. Perhaps a hallucinogen.

John moved closer, and then stopped, and then took another step and then stopped, until he was just far enough that he wasn’t considered “underneath” the little sprig of red-and-green. “So you—” he coughed and didn’t continue.

Sherlock finished pouring the cocoa into the mugs. He looked at John.

“It’s tradition,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

There must be something wrong with the air circulation: it was suddenly extremely hard to breathe.

“Yeah,” John said. “I suppose it is.”

He stood on his tiptoes.

-+-+-+-

John entered the kitchen the next morning. His steps faltered slightly, but he didn’t stop this time.

He made a small noise of recognition, and nodded towards it.

Sherlock didn’t look over. He was piping something onto a marshmallow.

“It’s drilled into the ceiling,” he said. “Didn’t bother taking it down.”

“Mhm.” John tilted his head. “So.”

Sherlock stopped his piping of what seemed to be a snowman’s face, and looked over. “Is it one-time use?”

John blinked, incredulous, and then laughed. “Depends.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock straightened up, placing the tube of icing and the marshmallow onto the counter. He looked at John with an unreadable expression.

Well, then.

This time, Sherlock dipped his head down to meet John.

-+-+-+-

It was the third consecutive morning, and this time, John didn’t acknowledge it. He closed the distance between them quickly, in a few long strides.

Sherlock let go of the whisk and turned to face John.

John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock as he reached up a hand, grabbed the mistletoe, and yanked it straight off the string.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times as John tossed it haphazardly to the side.

John sighed, grabbed Sherlock’s face in his hands, and snogged him. Properly.

The hot cocoa scorched in the pot.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock was built for fast bursts of speed, explosions of energy, dashing after a criminal through the streets, ending as quick as it had started.

John was a soldier, years of training and trekking kicking up his endurance to one that was higher than Sherlock’s. Pursuits that exceeded five minutes would wind up with John in the lead, not slowing in the slightest.

Sherlock knew that. He was fine with it, accepted the fact that, when the chase finally ended, Sherlock would be breathing significantly heavier, his heart beat noticeably quicker.

But _this._

This was _ridiculous._

Sherlock felt like he was going to pass out if John kept kissing him, but he wanted it, oh he wanted it, and John kept kissing him and kissing him and if John took his lips off Sherlock’s his heart was going to jump out of his mouth and onto the carpet.

Too many sensations, overriding his system; hands running down his spine, fingers threading through his hair, strong warm hands on his face and tilting his head; the counter digging into his hip, his head hitting the cabinets above, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him, stumbling to a wall.

Sherlock had kissed many people, many times. He was told that he was very good at it—of course, it was easy memorization and muscle memory, realising what the other enjoyed and applying it to his technique.

But _this._ But _John._

John did something that made Sherlock’s knees give away. Without stopping, John took a step impossibly closer, pushing him against the wall so he wouldn’t slide down.

Sherlock made a noise that, in hindsight, he would be utterly affronted by, but at the moment couldn’t give less of a damn about. He thought that he should ask John for lessons.

Now, Sherlock could always count on John to be the first to look away, the first to speak in a long silence. He could maintain a serious eye contact and create a thick enough silence for most people to give in after less than a minute.

But.

After how long, Sherlock wasn’t sure, he pulled away, his mind heady and tinged with euphoria. John immediately closed the distance again and Sherlock made another noise.

“Please,” Sherlock stammered out, gasped. His eyelids fluttered. “I can’t… I’m going to faint.”

John’s eyes shone with surprise, then darkened, burned into something fiercely possessive. He backed off mere millimeters; when he spoke, their lips brushed together. Sherlock wondered how he was going to survive this.

“Hell, Sherlock,” John said. “You—” he couldn’t help himself; kissed him again. “You are absolutely, positively mad.”

“I love you,” Sherlock said. His train of thought seemed to be missing tracks.

John laughed, breathless. _“Finally,”_ he said, and Sherlock said, “I love you,” again, and this time John said it back, and this was giving Sherlock more adrenaline than a murder chase, it was making Sherlock more intoxicated than cocaine.

-+-+-+-

Turns out, Sherlock liked to be held. Which had caused quite a few road bumps, with him being all elbows and knees and long, long legs, but in the end, John managed to get his arms around Sherlock, who curled up against his chest, compacting his lankiness into something that was workable.

Sherlock hummed, hands holding one of John’s, the pulse beneath his fingers and John’s heart, beating against his back.

Sherlock could feel his own heartbeat, he could hear it pounding in his ears, frantic and frenzied.

“Equilibrium,” Sherlock murmured.

John kissed where Sherlock’s neck merged with his shoulder.

Outside their window came the sounds of fireworks, cheering and applause.

Sherlock felt John smile. “Happy new year,” he said.

“Arbitrary,” Sherlock said.

“Except for this,” John replied.

“John?” Sherlock said.

“What is it, love?”

Sherlock felt something melt inside of him. He squirmed himself closer. “I adore Christmas,” he declared.

John laughed quietly. “I’m glad.”

“I love you,” Sherlock said for the seventh time.

“Love you too, you git.”

Sherlock paused. “You do?”

“What, was it the snogging that gave it away?”

Sherlock huffed and twisted around. “Tell me why,” he demanded.

John rolled his eyes, but they were soft and filled with affection—one that Sherlock wasn’t sure why it was addressed to him.

“You’re supposed to be the genius here,” John said, tracing a thumb over Sherlock’s lips. “It was hopeless from the start. It was ridiculous. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

“I did,” Sherlock said confusedly, because he did, but it just didn’t make sense. “The signs of attraction were blatantly obvious; even Anderson noticed.”

John’s face changed. “What?”

“Nevermind that,” Sherlock said quickly.

“I saw the signs, but I didn’t know why they were pointing to me.”

John pursed his lips. “You really aren’t what some people think you are.”

Sherlock thought that could go both ways.

John threaded a hand through Sherlock’s hair and sighed. “I can’t explain it very well,” he admitted. “I love you. I just do. I’m…” He smiled. “Infatuated. Topsy-turvy.” And he moved in to kissed Sherlock again, like he couldn’t wait any longer.

And Sherlock decided that he would do it every day, have hot cocoa in the mornings and hang tinsel around the flat, wear hideously bright oversized jumpers and go out for sledging, skating, snowball fights, if John was here.

He was vulnerable, exposed, his emotions laid bare. But he never felt so secure.

Sherlock brought his head down, and brushed his lips over John’s knuckles, kissing the fingertips one at a time.

“Stay,” he whispered.

John held him close. “Always, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the festive bandwagon. Merry Christmas!
> 
> _“Would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?”_ is a quote from the original books.


End file.
